


An experiment in friendship

by 221B_Marauder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221B_Marauder/pseuds/221B_Marauder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is used to working alone until a stranger named John Watson happens to be nearby and actually do what Sherlock tells him to. As it turns out, John Watson isn't someone to be pushed around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Hasn't been betaed or Britpicked.

It’s a warm night and John is sitting in a café with Elizabeth drinking tea and eating pastry. She’s smiling prettily at him and John can’t help but enjoy at the attention. Not anyone could get a date with Elizabeth Holden. And John wasn’t just anyone; he was Rugby Captain and College Scholarship holder for a science with a spot waiting just for him at the University of London. 

Elizabeth was a very pretty and small brunette with dark brown eyes and a deep passion for History. She wants to work in a museum one day and John thinks that’s an interesting thing to want for someone their age. He briefly wonders when the right time to sneak a kiss in will be best received. He has to go back to his Grandparents tomorrow morning and he won't be back to visit his parents for another two weeks at shortest.

There’s a loud commotion outside and John cranes to get a better look out of the large window. There’s another bloke around his age seeming perfectly calm with a book bag slung over his shoulder while an older man is fidgeting in obvious agitation. John thinks it’s rather time to take Elizabeth Holden home now, after all he did promise her father he’d keep her safe. “Are you ready?” John asks kindly, trying to get across it’s time to leave without making it seem like he's pushing to finish the date.

“Oh, yes!” She smiles back brightly at him.

He resists a reluctant sigh. While Elizabeth is pretty and talks a lot about what she wants to do, they haven’t really got much in common. He wants to have plenty in common with her, she seems pretty great and down to earth. “Great, let me just get the bill.” John smiles softly as he stands up, pulling his wallet out to pay at the counter. 

They’re walking out of the café and heading towards the nearest station when John realizes that the two from before have moved further away. That’s good; he won’t have to get in the middle of something that didn’t involve him. The sooner he gets home, the sooner he can go to sleep and wake up prepared for a trip back to his grandparents. 

The station is only a few yards away and John waits patiently as Elizabeth’s tube comes before his arrives for the opposite direction. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, John.” Elizabeth pecks him on the mouth before she steps off and into the train with a last smile and wave.

John watches the tube depart knowing his train to his parents will arrive in the next thirty minutes, so he makes his way over to the nearest bench to wait. It smells like someone has recently pissed on it. Shaking his head and wrinkling his nose in disgust, John makes his way outside for a bit of fresher air.

He’s shuffling from foot to foot reading the papers taped to the walls when he hears running, then shouting. “Stop him! Don’t just stand there like an idiot!” A normally strong and posh voice wheezes as it fails to keep up with the running man.

John takes a glance and makes a split second decision almost as if he were compelled by the voice with his sudden haste. He’s sprinting after the man ready to tackle him to the ground as he would any opponent during a game or practice. He runs for what feels like more than five minutes, the man has more endurance than he expected and John forgets to wonder why he’s chasing after a man that looks to be over a decade older than him in the first place. 

That’s when he turns the corner to follow the man and is forced to stop running once coming upon a dead end. Mainly because the man is staring at a brick wall where he must have hoped was another alley opening he could sneak through. The man turns to face John, “Stay back!” He snarls making John flinch just a little.

John fights the urge to put his hands up and back away. “Listen here mate, whatever it is you took from that guy, just give it back okay.” John placates with a patience he’s never shown to this extent before. 

“I’ve taken nothin’ from that little queer!” He spits at John. 

John takes the moment to wonder where that git got off to. Wonders heavily if he managed to keep up or know where to look from where he’s got the guy trapped in. He doesn't want to stand here longer than he has to. 

“Then whatever the reason he’s chasing you for, just return it to whomever.” 

“What makes you think I took anythin’?!” The man demands, taking a step towards John.

“Because perhaps you look like a thief” A gasping voice snaps. John whirls around to face the newcomer and the guy he’d seen arguing with this man outside of the café. He feels a heavy moment of regret. 

What if this was a plan and the two were working together to lure some idiot and John just happened to be that idiot ready to be mugged. 

“I’m not here to mug you, now move.” The voice snapped already catching his breath, sidestepping past John. John takes a moment to reel at how posh the voice is before letting annoyance and frustration propel him to stand next to the newest addition.

“What the hell, why did you ask me to stop him?” John snapped, completely ignoring the situation he's helped cause.

“I needed him stopped.” The guy says without paying any more attention to John. He considers leaving the area, but he is now involved. He fingers the phone in his pocket, prepared to call the police at a moment’s notice if something goes awry. 

“But why” John pushes, wanting to know the reason he just chased a man far enough to not make it to his train on time. He’d be in trouble for missing curfew with his parents.

The guy finally turns to look at John with, well, he turns to glare at John. “This isn’t any of your business. I don’t need you anymore. Now leave.” Is snapped at John while John only stares calmly back while his eyes betray a deep fury at being spoken to and dismissed in that particular way. 

“Great, perfect, On with it then.” John says in a commanding tone before motioning to the guy with his hand and a sneer on his face before turning on his heels and marching off. His hand fisted around his phone contemplating calling the police; he misses the guy’s face scrunching up in distaste as he leaves. 

He’s a street down when he hears shouting. “- or I’ll shoot!” John should have been smart, should have done the right thing. He’s pushing the buttons to call the police at this moment when he sees the man he’d chased near the exit of the alley. Not where he left him trapped before. 

Now the man’s holding a gun and presumably pointing it at the idiot who had demanded he leave earlier. John wasn’t the biggest idiot of the night it seemed, small victories. 

It wasn’t a difficult decision really. One minute he’s about to press the talk button and the next he’s flung his phone to smash on the sidewalk away from him and next to the man with a gun. Like he thought, the man turns to look at the phone and John is sprinting at him, clipping into his shoulder and tripping onto the floor not taking into account how much larger the man is than he.

That part wasn’t planned. The plan was to tackle the man to the ground, not end up on the ground with a gun pointed at him and no phone to call for help. John is ready for fear and panic to consume him, instead he goes briefly cold before his body fully relaxes, his muscles unclenching. 

It’s a strange reaction to have with a gun pointed at him, Very strange indeed. The man is yelling something at him. The gun is waving around. He only hears the blood rushing in his ears and an unfamiliar shoulder pressed tightly against his. His eyes are carefully tracking the gun and as he perceives the man is swinging the gun to point up again, John lunges with his dominant left hand grabbing the man’s hand and forcing the gun to continue pointing up as he tries to wrestle it away.

John is struggling with a grown man for a while before a bullet rings out into the sky. The fear comes crashing down on him like a fifty foot wave and he spares a brief thought to when and where the bullet will be coming back down before coming back at the gun stronger than before.

And then John has flung the gun several feet away down the street and his fists are pounding into the man’s stomach and face over and over again. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop, even when the man has stopped struggling and is only trying to protect his face now.

He feels someone yank him away, throwing him bodily onto the floor on his back and that’s when he realizes someone was yelling at him, and that John’s throat hurts from yelling while punching the man and that his cheeks sting from salty tears.

John had been sobbing the whole time he’d been hitting the man. That was probably a more normal reaction to having a gun pointed at him.

A lanky figure crouches in front of him, “The police are on their way”. 

John only has the strength to nod before he’s pushed himself against the wall and has his legs sprawled out extended in front of him in exhaustion. The tall guy with wild curly dark hair and shocking pale eyes is pacing while simultaneously tapping his mobile on his outer thigh. He looks frustrated. 

He hears the sirens before they consume the area they’re in. In just under five minutes the man is taken into an ambulance and John is being forced to stand up to give a statement. By this point he’s freezing, trembling in his attempt to keep from shaking and by the time they’re done with him and given him warnings, John is just about ready to pass out.

“See that you go home kid.” The man nods not unkindly to him.

“Thank you Sergeant Lestrade.” John murmurs after he’s left his home phone number with the Sergeant because he no longer has a working mobile. 

He looks around him and notices most of the officers are gone and John is left to trek his way back to the nearest station. By this point he’s about three hours past curfew at half past two in the morning, he can’t call his parents to explain, and his knuckles ache and sting something fiercely. 

He’s nearly at the station when someone calls out his surname. John turns, thinking the police might need something more from him or decided that they want to take him in after all. Instead, as he turns he comes to face the git that got him into this mess in the first place.

“And what exactly do you want?” John snarls, exhaustion keeping his defenses up and filters down.

The guy halts where he stands, and John marvels at how quickly his face shuts down from any tells. “I wanted to extend my thanks for your services.” He grits out.

John pauses, and then he feels wildly guilty all of a sudden. “Sorry, sorry. Of course, glad I could help. Sorry I snapped, a bit tired.” John motions to himself up and down for proof with his left hand.

The guy nods before stepping closer and extending his hand. “Sherlock Holmes” He introduces himself with his sure and steady and still surprising posh voice.

John grips Sherlock’s hand in a steady grip, wincing only slightly at the feel of someone else’s fingers on his torn knuckles. “John Watson”. 

“Should have gotten that looked at by the ambulance.” Sherlock nods his head towards his hands. 

Wincing again while letting go and dropping hands John shrugs. “Just split, nothing I can’t take care of myself”. John assures the stranger. 

They’re quiet for only a moment that seems to carry on far longer than it really has before Sherlock speaks again. “Look John, I’d like to thank you for what you did back there,” Sherlock lifts a hand to stop John from interrupting. “Dinner?” Sherlock asks.

John’s head snaps up to look at Sherlock. “Dinner, with you, at almost 3 in the morning?” He asks for clarification. Sherlock only nods and John realizes that he’s actually starving.

“I know a place that stays open late. Chinese,” Sherlock confirms. 

He only has a moment to hesitate. He’s already in trouble, might as well get something out of it all. “Sure, why not.” John smiles before shoving his hands carefully into his jean pockets.

* * *

“John, phone!” Harry yells from the kitchen. 

Confused, he sits on his bed with his book still in his lap as he tries to remember who has his parent's home phone number. He decides the police do, and quickly stands up to get the phone. Harry hands it over before going back to pouring her glass of orange juice.

“Hello?” John speaks into the receiver, expecting a steady police voice.

“Ah, John,” A deep voice but clearly not of an adult flows through the phone to him, “I need you to meet me at Hyde Park.” The voice continues.

Finally John makes the connection. “Wait, Sherlock?” 

“Yes”

“How did you get my parents number?” John asks, feeling both impressed and just a little confused.

“Easy. Will you meet me?” The voice takes on a hint of impatience. 

“I – sure,” John says before thinking about his grounding. Sherlock doesn’t have to know. “When are we meeting?” 

“4, Hyde Park by Diana’s fountain”

“I’ll see you then” John trails off slowly as the connection ends before he’s finished speaking. letting out a long suffering sigh he sets the phone down, he could just easily not go. But Sherlock had proved to be interesting and he was terribly bored of being grounded for a week by both his grandparents and parents. 

 

He was late. Getting to Hyde Park had taken a bit longer than he had anticipated and he wondered if Sherlock was waiting and if he’d be irritated. He wouldn’t put it past him to hold it against him for the rest of the day. 

Glancing around he saw only tourists and children and couldn’t see Sherlock. Maybe he had left, after all John was a quarter of an hour late. He’d wait for fifteen minutes, it was only fair.

Except five minutes later Sherlock was walking steadily up to him. “John, good to see you.” 

John stared, his jaw felt a little loose. Sherlock looked nothing like he had a week ago. “You too, uhm what are you wearing?” John asked, looking pointedly at Sherlock and his finely pressed shirt and trousers and shined leather shoes. 

Sherlock looks down at himself in slight confusion trying to catch what it is John is seeing that he isn't. “My clothes,” He replies with no hint of sarcasm and not even a teasing tone, just blunt and obvious and unaware of John’s current thoughts for once.

“Right,” John murmurs, “Okay, why are we here?” 

“I am working on an experiment, I require your assistance.” Sherlock answers.

“An experiment?” 

“Yes. I want to make a map of the soil and deposits around Britain.” John was stunned. 

And that was how for the last few weeks of schooling and a better part of his summer were spent collecting dirt samples for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock always left John with money and tubes to be labeled and to collect his samples while he and Sherlock took off on a train to a location before separating for what could be hours and meeting up once more to get back home. Collecting dirt for Sherlock had been much more complicated while John was at Perth living with his grandparents and suffering through exams.

It was June and John was lounging on Sherlock’s duvet in his summer home in London. “Sherlock, I’m bored.” John complained in his best attempt at sounding like Sherlock. The Holmes were a little strange, summering in London and all.

It seemed the tone he had taken grated on Sherlock despite being the biggest abuser of it. “Then find something to do, I’m busy!” Sherlock had snapped. 

“You’re busy looking at dirt. You’ve been looking at dirt for the last couple of weeks.” John told him imperiously.

Sherlock froze at his table, slowly twisted on his stool to face John and glared at him. “This is important. And if you weren’t here to distract me, I’d be finished by now.” Sherlock snapped back.

“And who would have helped you collect all this important dirt?” John asked, rolling off the tall bed and walking over to the stack of jars with dirt in them. He felt Sherlock following his every move with his strange eyes and John grinned, turning to look back at Sherlock. 

Sherlock scowled at him and John only smiled brighter. “Come on, it’s summer. Let’s go out, take the train somewhere not in London where it’s so bloody crowded with tourists.” 

“As if your parents will let you out of London,” Sherlock scoffed, turning to give attention back to his table and experiment.

“What my parents don’t know won’t hurt them.” John smirked, resting a hip against the edge of Sherlock’s Lab table and looking down at the mess of dark curls.

“No, I’m busy.” Sherlock insisted, ignoring everything about John from that moment on, or so John thought.

“Fine,” John huffs before crossing the room and throwing himself boneless on Sherlock’s bed once more. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket he flips it open and texts Bill back. 

>   
> **Me (Today 2:33 PM) to Bill:**  
> 
> 
> The 6PM Game, I’ll be there.

Almost instantly John gets a reply. The phone vibrates from where he has dropped it on his sternum before he flung his arms out in yet another attempt for his fingertips to reach the ends of the bed. 

>   
> **Bill (Today 2:34 PM):**  
> 
> 
> Finally, Watson, meet at the usual. Team Dinner afterwards win or lose.

John grins widely; he’d missed out on playing Rugby with his London dwelling friends during the summer for helping Sherlock instead. Even Elizabeth had taken the back burner, but she was vacationing in the Americas at this time. 

>   
> **Me (Today 2:34 PM) to Bill:**  
> 
> 
> We’re winning.

John drops the phone on the bed beside him this time before moving his hands to the back of his head and tilting his head and making eye contact with Sherlock who was now looking over his shoulder at him with a very disapproving look on his face.

“No.” Sherlock says woodenly. 

“Have you ever actually been to a Rugby game before?” John taunts from his position on the bed.

“Don’t be daft, of course I have.” Sherlock sniffed. 

“I don’t believe you” John states simply and at Sherlock’s affronted look, a smirk so bright and mischievous lights up John’s face. “Come with me.” 

“No.” Sherlock mutters, turning back to his table. 

“Game starts at six, you’re coming with me.” John says simply as if it is a fact.

Sherlock is silent from his position leaning over his experiment, whether its acquiescence or just ignoring him; John is convincing Sherlock to come to this game if he isn't convinced already. A self satisfied smile rests on his face for the rest of the afternoon.

Not even Mycroft standing at Sherlock’s doorway for who knows how long before John wakes up from his nap on Sherlock’s bed. He’s yawning and stretching lazily under the covers before he opens his eyes and notices a tall man staring at him.

John flushes suddenly, realizing that he’s been caught lying under the covers of another blokes’ bed. He quickly pushes the covers off of himself for three reasons: one to get out of bed, two to control and cool his overheated body, and three to show that he is indeed very not naked and actually fully clothed down to his feet. 

He realizes at that moment that he isn’t exactly alone in his borrowed bed, a body is pressing hotly against him and quiet murmurs more like puffs of hot breath to the back of his nape make him shiver in a way he hasn’t before, and he mentally calls himself an idiot for not noticing sooner. Because that really should have been one of the first things he realized. 

Opening his mouth to greet the eldest Holmes brother for the first time and hoping to quickly and painlessly explain that he isn’t sleeping with his younger brother, well not sleeping in that way, when the man makes one last careful sweep over him before quickly and silently shutting the door leaving him in the darkened room.

John stares at the closed door for a full minute before falling onto his back and flinging his left arm over his eyes. He’s willing himself not to panic; surely Mr. and Mrs. Holmes let Mycroft know that Sherlock has had a friend over nearly every day for the past few weeks. And that they were working on an apparently very interesting and important dirt map of some sorts. 

Sherlock rolls closer to John at that moment, his head moving to rest on John’s chest as Sherlock has managed to push his pillow off the bed in such a short time. Suddenly the wide bed makes more sense to John. Instinctively John lowers his arm from his face to tug at a few curls sticking up and out the back of Sherlock's head before lowering his hand further to rest in the middle of Sherlock’s upper back between shoulder blades.

He’d been worried that Sherlock hadn’t been getting proper sleep in the weeks he’d known him and seeing him sleep filled him with a possessive urge to make sure he slept for as long as possible. That is until 4:50PM rolled around and John was playing with the idea of either sending a message that he couldn’t make it to the game after all or somehow rolling out from under Sherlock without waking him.

Saved from doing either by Sherlock generously waking up in a sudden jerk at 4:56PM that also happened to make John jump at the suddenness before he heard Sherlock groan and roll away from John to curl into himself at the edge of the bed.

John stares at him for a few seconds before his now free arm rests on his stomach and he’s fighting himself to keep from giggling. Sherlock turns to glare at him before seeing John’s honest mirth and not actually laughing at his expense that Sherlock smiles almost uncertainly before twisting his body to face in John’s direction. 

“Tired.” Sherlock responds to the unasked question.

“I could have deduced that,” John replies fondly, his other hand fingering at the edges of his phone. "Expected you to keel over into the dirt before you crawled to your bed actually."

“Need to get back to my samples.” Sherlock murmurs which happens to be a tried and tested and true evasive maneuver for him, pushing himself up into a sitting position quickly and ready to swing out of bed.

“Nope” John says brightly, catching on quickly. 

“No?” Sherlock questions getting closer to John and actually grumbling and all John can do is nod. 

“I have a game at six. I’ve tagged along behind you nearly every day and your dirt; my team could use you in our fan section.” John shrugs as he too pushes himself into a sitting position and making the extra move of swinging his legs off the bed and actually getting out of bed and leaning for his shoes. 

Sherlock is quiet behind him and John is prepared to let it go, let Sherlock stay and examine his dirt while he takes the night off to play Rugby. Either way, he’d be a little late to the game. “I don’t want to be in your team’s fan section.” Sherlock complains.

John grins, sensing weakness, and twisting to look at Sherlock. “Think of it as my fan section, then.” John suggests with unbridled excitement. He knows when Sherlock is backing down now.

“Like that’s any better.” Sherlock scoffs before rolling gracefully off the bed and heading for his closet. He comes back out a moment later buttoning up a different and unwrinkled shirt. 

“You might want to wear –“, John starts before halting and then smiling fondly, “Never mind, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

Once Sherlock has put on his shoes and the two race down the stairs to the foyer, the two nearly manage to run into a finely dressed Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft Holmes. John is momentarily confused, it looks as if they’re off to the Royal Ascot or something along those lines with Mrs. Holmes’ summery dress and hat and Mycroft in a stylish summer suit. 

“The car is waiting.” Mycroft says, his voice smooth and cool and perfect for someone with a minor position in the British Government at the age of 24 that Sherlock always scoffs at. 

John is about to ask about the car before Sherlock is pushing him forwards and out the front door and Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft Holmes are following. “I, er, need to get my kit.” John mutters to Sherlock by minutely turning his head and finding himself being shoved into a car quite unwillingly. 

Sherlock gives him a pitying look before sitting beside John and glaring at the roof of the car as his family gets in. They are silent for the ride to his house, everyone quietly listening to Mrs. Holmes chattering about being excited to see a rugby game with someone she could earnestly cheer for. 

John is blushing but enjoys Mrs. Holmes’ attention; after all, she has been so kind to him so far. This is more than he can say for his parents who embarrass him every time he drags Sherlock to his house. That first meeting should have gone well, if his mum hadn’t started shouting. 

“I’ll only be a minute” John assures as he dashes out of the car leaving his mobile and wallet and getting out with just his keys to unlock the door to the house. Quickly running up the narrow stairs and to his room he yanks out his old school’s provided sports bag from under his bed with his out of school rugby uniform already packed in. 

He’ll have to change when he gets there, he’s running late as it is. So with his sports bag still open he dashes to the kitchen to fill up a few old water bottles with tap water. He’s out of the door in three minutes from when he first went in and fumbles to lock up the door. 

His parents weren’t home, probably having dinner together with Harry and without him. He calmly climbs back into the car checking his watch to see the he has almost thirty minutes to get to the field. Hopefully he wouldn’t be so late after all.

“Got everything,” Sherlock mumbles at him for the sake of saying something, John’s sure of it.

John glances up at Sherlock, grins and nods before pulling out a bottle to drink a bit of water. He’d need to be hydrated for this game. 

* * *

“John, you were quite fantastic out there.” Mrs. Holmes pulls him into a hug, not a whit of care to the blood and sweat dripping down his face and the thin patches of skin missing from his arms and legs. 

He thanks her shyly, giving her a quick squeeze around her shoulders before finally being let go. He’s not feeling the pain yet, the adrenaline is still coursing through his body and he feels like he can still run a couple of more miles. Probably be for the best if he didn’t, his muscles were bulging from the sudden excess use and he knows they’ll be twitching and weak in less than an hour.

“Thank you Mrs. Holmes, It was nice having you cheering for the team. Really helped us pull through in the end.” He grins charmingly at her, miraculously free of blood. 

“It was my pleasure. How about the four of us go to a celebratory dinner?” She asks, smiling brightly at the boys around her.

John pauses, considering the invitation and wondering how his mates would react to him walking off with the Holmes’.

“Mummy, I think John and Sherlock had plans.” Mycroft cuts in smoothly, by some good will saving John from having to decline.

“Ah, a team celebratory dinner it is then.” She smiles fondly at him, “Fine, shoo then. Off you go.” She says playfully.

John grins, utterly charmed with the woman. “I’ll just take Sherlock then, what time do you want him back?” He asks, turning to smirk at his friend.

“Before he finds trouble” She answers carefully. John can only nod back.

“I’m not on the team, why should I have to go?” Sherlock voices his complain from beside him. 

“Ignore him,” John speaks over Sherlock cheerfully. 

John watches the slightly stunned looks on both Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft’s faces before feeling that he probably shouldn’t have said that. Or he probably shouldn’t have blurted it out in that way.

“Take care boys” Mrs. Holmes gives them her blessing a moment later before she is pulling Mycroft away from them. John only nods and waves his hand for goodbye.

“Come on Sherlock, tonight, we feast like Kings.” John turns to Sherlock to find him glaring at him. He’d have died if looks could kill. “We won’t stay the whole time, I promise.” John begins attempting to compromise. 

“You expect me to play nice with your friends.” Sherlock spits before turning to look at the rest of the team with a disdainful sneer on his face. “I don’t think anything good is going to come of this, John. I can only tolerate one stupid Rugby player at a time.” He says all of this while standing at his full height with his chin actually pointed up and his usual challenging expression on his face. 

John knows what this is; he maybe even understands why Sherlock is doing it. Doesn’t mean he has to put up with it. “Sherlock” John begins in a warning tone before someone as filthy as John has run up to him and clapped him heavily on the shoulder.

“We’re thinking of heading out now, you two ready?” Bill asks, hanging without a second care off of John’s shoulders. 

“Just about, give us a minute?” John asks, nudging Bill away before turning back to frown at Sherlock. “I’m not going to force you to come with me.” John starts hesitantly, “Just the guys wanted to know why I kept brushing them off for the past few weeks.” He tries to explain while making it seem as unimportant as he can. 

“And you somehow thought that was a good idea.” Sherlock scoffed, looking heavenwards as if for guidance. 

“I figured showing them was better than mucking up a description.” John snapped, losing all patience. “They want to meet you and I want you with me, please don’t make this difficult Sherlock. If you don’t want to, I apologize for assuming, I’ll think of an excuse to get you out of this not looking like an arse. But don’t insult me, I’m your friend, remember.” John pokes firmly at Sherlock’s sternum enough to cause the taller boy to hiss in pain. 

John is biting his bottom lip and soothing it with his tongue afterwards over and over. “I won’t stay for long.” He looks up at Sherlock with something like surprise on his face. “But I’ll make their acquaintance” Sherlock looks at him as if daring him to challenge him.

John can only smile slightly before nodding, “I’ll get you a soda”. 

Sherlock only groans. “We’re going to a pub. A pub, how obvious.” 

John can’t help but grin now. “Maybe a few virgin drinks, it isn't my fault most of the team is already of age and always decide on a pub.” 

Sherlock contorts his face in such a displeased manner that John can only laugh and push his friend forwards to catch up with his summer teammates. “Fish and chips too, you don’t usually let me push you around, you must be hungry.” 

“Oi, guys, you wanted to know why I stopped letting you tag along with me?” John jokes with his old neighborhood friends. “I’d like you to meet Sherlock; we’re working on a project of his together.” 

“That is a very impressive suit, mate.” Mike whistles as he steps forwards to shake Sherlock’s hand after Bill. 

Half of the guys take the time to introduce themselves to Sherlock, who would no doubt be deleting all of their names before the night was over, while the others ignored them; Nothing too different from the usual. 

So when John finds himself giggling and being herded out of Bill's house by Sherlock much longer after the thirty minutes they’d planned, but two hours later with John fully piss drunk. “I’m going to be in so much trouble.” John giggles again as he looks at the angry text his mother sent him an hour ago. “Listen to what she said.” John fumbles through his phone to get to voicemail before shoving it against Sherlock’s ear. 

Sherlock takes the abuse with the greatest patience he’s ever managed. He can’t stand inebriated persons, but John became so mild mannered when drunk that Sherlock could only mourn a friend capable of walking in a straight line and keeping a general well balance. “I’m sorry.” John slurs quickly catching onto Sherlock's thoughts without having to try. “I can make it home myself.”

“You do realize your mother just told you not to bother coming back tonight. That if you wanted to stay out late, you might as well make a night out of it.” Sherlock smirked down at John whose head was too busy hanging down and lolling back to look up at Sherlock.

“Why do you think I drank so much? She – she, I don’t think she likes me very much anymore.” John shrugs in such an innocent and childish way that Sherlock feels strange for being allowed to care for John Watson in the middle of the night while drunk. “Still, shouldn’t have had too many shots. Could have picked up more dirt for you.” He struggles through his sentences. 

“Quiet John, I’ll just take you to mine. And we already have the dirt we need from this area.” He murmurs as a cab finally stops for him, easily maneuvering a mild mannered John onto the seat in the back.

“No.” John insists sounding suddenly sober. “Then your mum won’t like me.” 

Sherlock freezes before shutting the door behind him and glancing to John beside him, slumped against the opposite window. “She wouldn’t dislike you for being drunk.” 

“She would. No one wants their kids around bad influences.” John continues with all the somber seriousness only a thoughtful drunk could possess. 

John watches confused as Sherlock laughs, staring right at him as if he were suddenly something very interesting. He would forget about that look by morning, miraculously without a hangover as Sherlock had forced glass after glass of water down his throat. He still woke up thirsty in the afternoon though. 

“Get out of my bed” John mumbles into his pillow as he feebly pushes at a half awake Sherlock with his considerably weakened muscles. He is not actually in his bed, John notices after a particularly vicious jab of an elbow into his solar plexus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little nervous about posting this, but it's about time I contribute to the Sherlock fandom. Hopefully it'll get better as I get the hang of this.


	2. Harry Watson

Harry follows closely behind her brother and his newest friend leading him up the stairs to the room John occupies when he visits.

“Will you tell me what the _hell_ happened?” Harry hisses angrily after shutting the door behind her. Their parents aren’t home yet and won’t be for a while. John is too busy looking around with unfocused eyes.

“He lost.” Sherlock answers both distracted and dismissively as he slowly lowers John onto his unmade bed. John grunts into his ear as he accidentally jostles him.

“Careful!” Harry snaps at Sherlock. She’s seen him around the house a little, always as she leaves to go out with friends. She’s home for dinner when her mum and dad complain about John and the horrid boy spending so much time together.

“Shut up!” Sherlock snaps back in irritation, clearly not appreciating being told how to care for his friend and more importantly her little brother. “I know what I’m doing.” 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Harry starts her voice as clear and steady as her brothers when angry. “You will tell me what the hell happened before I call my father and make him run you out of our house.” She threatens, her hand pulling her mobile from her back pocket.

Sherlock looks up at her then, his strange cold eyes burning into her own warm brown eyes. She’s set a challenge and Sherlock Holmes looks about ready to take it up. Raising an eyebrow in obvious expectation of an explanation, she locks the door behind her. “Start talking.” 

Sherlock kicks up from the bed and begins pacing the length of the room alternating between looking down at her brother who had shut his eyes against pain with a frown adorning his face.

She’s waited for over a minute. Over a minute of watching Sherlock Holmes pace is almost enough to drive her up the wall. She doesn’t know how her brother can do it. He’s always been more patient than her, calmer even. But with Sherlock Holmes around he has been all but patient and calm judging by his recent activities and injuries. 

“Hush, you’re not making it easier.” Sherlock snaps at her once again. 

She’s left with her anger to simmer quietly. A few more remarks like that from Sherlock and he’ll find himself barred from the Watsons for the rest of his life. She’d see to that. 

“Does that mean you’ll start explaining why my brother has returned home bruised and bleeding?” She is reminded of when John used to cry when he was little, she would pinch him for getting in her way and he would cry until he didn't. She would always regret it afterwards, John had an innocent look about him that made him look as if he needed protection. She hadn’t done a very good job at that, which is why he lived in Perth and not London. 

“John came with me to Eton to pick up the Stradivarius that my instructor ordered for me. We came across a few – well, idiots I share the institution with – and John didn’t take too kindly to them.” Sherlock muttered the lie quickly as he turned to look back at John who had now curled himself into the fetal position. 

“And you just let them?” Harry asked disbelievingly. “He’s your friend! Or so John thinks he’s your friend – just because he’s poor doesn’t mean you lot can punch him about!” She snarled, fisting her hand in Sherlock’s shirt. 

“I didn’t join in!” Sherlock snarled in his defense, not liking one bit being accused of hurting John, which had apparently been some sort of an accident. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. He wanted a tour and I entertained him until we came across the group.” Sherlock shoved Harry’s hand from his shirt, disgusted a little at how easily she accepted the lie. 

“But you still just stood there.” Harry accused.

She saw as his lips curled into a frightening snarl. “I was held down.” Sherlock replied heatedly. 

Harry stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, trying to see if this friend of Johns was worth one keeping around because he seemed to bring trouble at every turn. 

“He passed out for a while.” Sherlock started speaking after leaning against the window to look back into the room at her and John. “Then he couldn’t stand up by himself. He was too dizzy. I would have taken him to the infirmary there, but John was in a fight with students while not being one. They would have just called the authorities.” Sherlock explained. 

Harry sat on the edge of John’s bed, a few inches away from her brother who seemed to fall into and out of a light doze every minute or so. He sounded like he was on the verge of snoring. 

“I took him home first.” Sherlock continued. “But my father was home and insisted I take John back here instead.” He said in a tone that didn’t sound all too pleased at having to follow such an order. 

Harry turned her back to him as she turned to focus on her brother and his injuries. He had a cut across his eyebrows. Hopefully the fist that had landed there left with bruised bones. One of his eyes was swollen and there was the faint red on his skin above his lip that showed wiped off blood. 

She leaned over John, checking his fists and noticing they too were bruised and skinned slightly. Reaching for his wrist, she was about to prod to see if it was sprained or something.

“Oh, move.” Sherlock snapped, surprisingly waiting for Harry to get up herself instead of pushing her off the bed like she half expected.

“What are you doing?” She demanded to know.

“Checking for injuries” Sherlock turned to look at her like an idiot. She felt her blood boil a little more. Then she watched as he lifted each hand and examined each finger, knuckle, and wrist. 

She held off from asking to help as he unbuttoned John’s ruined attempt at a nice shirt to fit in as a public school boy. She did lean over Sherlock as he prodded at ribs. John hissed once before waking up suddenly and staring wide eyed at Sherlock, completely ignoring her. 

“Just bruised, nothing looks fractured or broken - hopefully. You should be fine.” Sherlock spoke directly to John now. Harry felt ignored. 

“What were you doing getting into a fight with posh gits?” Harry demanded.

John turned to look at her before frowning. “Just drop it, yeah?” 

“I won’t just drop it. _Answer_ me, John. What will we tell mum and dad?” 

“You wouldn’t understand. Neither would they.” John replied defiantly, staring her down. 

And that was it. “You great idiot!” She hissed as she turned away and stormed out of his room. She returned later with an icepack and was given an appreciative look from Sherlock before leaving once more in an annoyed huff. 

She didn’t like that Holmes boy.

* * *

The next time John arrived at the Holmes household, Mrs. Holmes pulled John aside to comment on his bruises, looking quite concerned. John handled it with magnificent patience and tried to reassure her that it was nothing to worry about. 

“Tell me you have something for me to do.” John sighed as he finally managed to make his way into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock only looked up at John, caught a little by surprise from lying on his bed and looking through his current map. 

“No eye trouble past the tenderness of the area. Your ribs still ache when you move suddenly. I’m pleased to see you’re doing fine. I need you to run an errand for me.” Sherlock rattled off as he glanced back at his map almost distractedly. 

John was pleased to hear it. He’d been much too bored being cooped up inside his house with his parents and Harry constantly berating him for getting into fights. He didn’t bother to answer Sherlock as he flopped down onto Sherlock’s bed beside him, shoes and all still on.

“That’s filthy, John.” He hears Sherlock’s disapproving tone.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing you've had on your sheets.” John counters easily but shoves his feet off the edge so he’s balanced precariously on his back, half on the bed and half off. “Anyway, what do you want me to do?”

He has his eyes closed; Sherlock’s bed has always felt more comfortable to the one he kept in both London and Perth. Sherlock’s bed was large and luxurious with a new mattress and nice sheets. John’s own beds were quickly assembled ones with bargain mattresses and sheets. He takes the time to enjoy the soft sheets against his skin it reaches.

“When you’re done rubbing yourself against my possessions, I need you to go to Scotland Yard and ask for PC Lestrade.” John is groaning in dissatisfaction at his task before Sherlock is even finished. He doesn’t want to go to bloody New Scotland Yard on the first day he’s out of forced bed rest. “And tell him I need the case file for Priory school, keeping the detail from me is really holding the case back.”

John could be stunned into silence at Sherlock's entitlement but he knows better than to be stunned at something Sherlock says anymore. Instead he whines and puts all his unhappiness in one word drawn out past normal and well into annoying, “Sherloooock”. He doesn’t want to go back and get into another altercation so soon.

“No, John.” Sherlock cuts him off sharply, also poking one of his annoyingly long fingers into his ribcage, making him jerk away at the sudden pressure on tender areas. “You said you wanted me to give you something to do, I have. So do it.”

John lies heavily on the bed. He’d do it, because he did ask Sherlock for something to do. But he has hours before he has to go to Scotland Yard and he could just lay here and ignore Sherlock and annoy him all at the same time. It’d make for Sherlock rolling off the bed in a huff and heading straight for his experiment table worth Sherlock being irritated with him.

Sometimes John forgets that Sherlock can be silent for a very long time. How Sherlock can easily pretend he is alone in a room or forget there is someone there to the point that John starts fidgeting in discomfort and finally Sherlock has to acknowledge him to tell him to stop and the cycle is repeated. They’re a bit strange. 

When he comes back from meeting PC Lestrade with very little more, Sherlock nearly throws him out of his house for the terrible results. But John is stubborn and bullies his way back into Sherlock’s room which is far more cluttered now than it had been before he left.

“I’m about to play. I need you to leave.” Sherlock states after he’s finished reading the new additions to the Priory School file as he stands at the edge of his bed, glaring down at John who is happily skimming through one of Sherlock’s books. John knows Sherlock is holding back from snatching the book out of his hands.

“So play.” John replies.

Sherlock lets out a strangled noise and John has no choice but to look up in alarm. Sherlock looks absolutely scandalized and John finally understands.

“Go on. I won’t make fun. I’m appalling at the clarinet but I still played it for years.” John shrugs, tossing the book to the side and rolling to face Sherlock. They stare at each other for a few seconds until Sherlock turns away in a huff and eventually plays to his window with his back firmly to John.

* * *

“You’re going where?” Harry crowds her brother on the staircase, not letting him down the stairs.

“Sussex. I’m checking out Sherlock’s home, it sounds nice.” Her younger brother replies.

Harry has the urge to throw her head back and scream. Does he not realize what he’s doing to their family by always running off with his friend Sherlock? He’s practically fitting himself into a new family and ignoring his own.

“You can’t.” Harry deadpans. 

She can see his annoyance ratchet up another notch. It only serves to make her angrier about it all too. 

“And why not? “ He demands. “I’m on vacation; I should be able to take a small one.”

“That’s why you’re here in London for your vacation.” Harry counters, trying to get the point across without having to say too much on the subject.

John only scoffs and rolls his eyes, pushing past her and hurrying down the stairs. She knew her parents sending John away to their grandparents in Scotland would not help anything in the slightest. And here were the results, her baby brother wanted nothing to do with his parents and always felt like Harry was in his way. 

“Where are you going?” She calls out to him, a weary tone taking place of her steady irritation.

“I have a date!” John calls back.

She finally notices that he’s wearing a clean unwrinkled shirt, not one he blindly slipped on that had been found at the floor of his bed like usual before heading over to Sherlock’s. She supposes it’s a good thing John is hanging out with someone else for the day.

“With who?” She follows him down the stairs quickly.

John turns to look at her with a devilish look on his face, their argument forgotten for the immediate moment. “Elizabeth” He replies.

Her friend Clara always reminded her of Elizabeth Holden.

* * *

They’re stepping off the London Eye, hands clasped together comfortably with Elizabeth’s bag bumping into his hip every once in a while. It’s comfortable.

“And the portions are large!” She laughs brightly up at him, leaning in closer to his side as she does so. “I did this sort of Burger challenge. I swear to you John, it was bigger than a teapot!”

It’s mildly interesting, the Americans are. He wants to ask if everyone really does carry around guns before he remembers they’re concealed and that he didn’t fancy having a gun pointed at him a while back. 

“I didn’t finish it of course.” She says in a tone that sounds like she’s correcting something he’s said. “I couldn’t possibly eat that much food; I don’t see how it could be done.”

John smiles down at her. “Tell me about the Empire building.” John prompts.

“The Empire _State_ building, John.” She corrects him before grasping his arm with her other hand so it’s less than ideal to walk through the amount of people they’re surrounded by now with her stumbling about. 

His mobile buzzes in his pocket and as recent habit, his hand is instantly fishing it out and he’s reading a text from Sherlock. Elizabeth is still talking, looking at him strangely because she’s noticed his attention is on something else.

> **Sherlock (Today 11:20 AM):**
> 
> My place. Urgent. SH 

He feels a tug on his arm and looks over to see Elizabeth pouting at him. “I’m hungry.” She comments as she tries to look over to read his new text. He quickly shoves his mobile back in his pocket before leading the way for somewhere to eat.

Sherlock knows he’s busy. He knows John was going out with Elizabeth for the day, so what was it now? She leads the way and John finds himself standing outside the Locale. He wonders briefly why they decided to tour London when Elizabeth lived there.

They’re in luck, there’s a table for two that they quickly snatch up. He’s just gotten his water when he gets another message.

> **Sherlock (Today 11:43 AM):**
> 
> Urgent, John. SH

John wants to reply. He’s curious, how could he not be when it came to Sherlock? But Elizabeth is looking across the table happily at him and as he shoves the mobile back in his pocket to look up at her and smile, she grins back before leaning over the table and kissing him.

He’s taken a little by surprise. But this is what he wanted. A gorgeous girl to spend his summer with that he could be allowed to touch and forget that he’s in London wasting his vacation with parents who had packed him away when trouble seemed too much.

Scooting forward in his seat and leaning further across, he fits a hand against her cheek and jaw and kisses her with a little more control over the angle and pressure. They sit back down in their chairs, grinning at each other. She was a great kisser. 

They are finally allowed to order and John can overlook the price because he’s suddenly very hungry and the food smells delicious. 

Another text message.

> **Sherlock (Today 11:48 AM):**
> 
> Your house doesn’t look abandoned. SH

He coughs up water, bringing the phone up from under the table to stare at in confusion.

“John?” Elizabeth asks wearily.

He spares her a glance and nods at his mobile before his thumb is flying to call Sherlock. To tell him not to bother ringing the door because he’s not there. Naturally, the call is ignored. He tries again, and is ignored once more.

It’s frustrating. He sets his mobile on the table and smiles tightly at Elizabeth. “Just something stupid –“

> **Sherlock (Today 11:56 AM):**
> 
> Your mom’s screaming. She makes no sense. SH

John brings his hand up to his forehead. “Fuck” John hisses, jumping up from the table.

“John!” Elizabeth snaps at him, confusion making her understandably irritable.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now. It was a nice date, let’s do it again sometime.” He rushes out as he pulls out his wallet to pay for his plate.

Once out of the restaurant he takes off at a sprint to the nearest station to head home. He’s fidgeting the whole time he’s waiting and the whole ride. Sherlock won’t send him any replies and the only text message he received before arriving at his door was from Elizabeth telling him not to bother calling.

When he opens the door to his parents’ home, he can feel the tension. Somehow he knows Sherlock is still there and when he walks to the kitchen he sees Sherlock sitting at the table, John’s dad beside him and his mom standing and glaring down at Sherlock.

“What’s going on here?” John demands quickly, shoving his keys into his pocket as he steps into the kitchen. He instantly makes eye contact with Sherlock as he walks around to stand beside him.

“I thought we said we didn’t want him coming here anymore!” His mom snarled and John was surprised at the amount of venom she was spitting. He instantly knew Sherlock hadn’t kept his mouth shut while held and he couldn’t decide whether to be proud of that or annoyed for getting his parents angrier.

“I forgot.” John snaps. He hadn’t told Sherlock his parents had demanded he stop seeing Sherlock and much less inviting him to the house. It was why John was always going over to Sherlock’s. 

“And he wouldn’t stop ringing the buzzer. I have a headache, John. I don’t need incessant trivialities making it worse.” She speaks in a forced patient manner. 

He feels anger begin to surface again. He just can’t spend more than a few minutes in his families’ company because someone always gets angry.

“It would help if you stopped the drinking.” Sherlock suddenly claims.

Everyone else freezes in the kitchen. His mother, his father, John; Sherlock is still sitting in the chair as if completely at ease. 

“It’s because of arses like you!” His mom suddenly shouts. “Always thinking you’re so clever.” She mocks. “I’ve taught hundreds of children your age and I’ve not met one _different_ \- not one _special_ child that has a reason to act like the two of you do!” She’s screaming and John is still frozen to his spot.

His father suddenly stands from the table, pushing his chair roughly back and just walks out of the kitchen and out of the house without another word, without a backwards glance at his son or wife.

“And then you, John!” She turns her fury onto her youngest. “You think that just because you’re my son that you can act like all the other people, you're supposed to be different! You think that you can be friends and invite condescending pretentious freaks like him,” She points roughly at Sherlock, “And I’d just sit by and be fine with it?!”

John wants to scream something back but his throat has closed tightly and it burns. It feels like he’s about to choke and several things happens all at once. His mother shuts up as if surprised. Harry comes thundering down the stairs screaming and something – no – someone is pushing him roughly out of the house while something else is trying to grip his arms and make him stumble off the set course.

He allows whoever it is to manhandle and lead him blindly because he can’t see either just as suddenly as he couldn’t speak. It’s like having fogged up laboratory goggles on. 

“Move John” Someone speaks harshly in his ear, whoever it is that is pushing him. “For god’s sake, _move_!” and the sharpness of that familiar voice propels him to move forwards. It’s not until they’re a reasonable distance from the house that he’s suddenly yanked to a stop and somehow he’s feeling cold in July. 

It’s Sherlock who led him out, Sherlock who is peering down at him without a shred of embarrassment or pity or concern on his face, but with actual curiosity. He doesn’t like it so he does the next best thing, pushes his friend out of his way and stalks onwards. He’s forcing his body to cooperate, to stop shaking and for his throat to open up so he can say something and maybe breathe easier. 

Sherlock doesn’t stop him from walking and only silently follows. It’s strange to have Sherlock follow him; he would never have guessed that it was something the other boy would do. 

When he finally stops, he’s breathing heavily and he turns to face Sherlock who is a few paces away. “Sorry about her.” John says in a determined fashion as he looks at Sherlock. A moment later his head droops into his raised hand and he’s shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have shown up like that Sherlock.” He mumbles as Sherlock has walked right up to him. 

“John –“ Sherlock starts.

“You know - God, you _knew_ I wasn’t going to be home today. It would have been better for you to crash my date than to show up at my parents’ house without me there.” John is muttering, his brain working hard to compose all his thoughts and feelings which are storming within.

He’s processing the afternoon before taking in a deep breath and looking Sherlock in the eye and changing the subject suddenly. “You needed me?” 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment before drawing out a simple “yes” and John nods, motioning for Sherlock to lead the way. He’d need the distraction and he couldn’t think of a person better suited for providing that to him at the moment.

* * *

They take a train from Paddington back to Priory school in Swindon. They’re on the train at 1PM and arrive by 2, the ride quiet and tense. Sherlock spends it thinking about the case and John spends it by watching people - seeing but not observing.

Upon arriving John and Sherlock make their way to the Fighting Cock Inn where John had last lost the match in bare-knuckle. John hesitated outside; he wasn’t keen on fighting again so soon. He had no real knowledge on how to fight except how to hold his fist so he wouldn’t break anything and how to protect his face.

“I’ll be fighting today.” Sherlock called out over his shoulder as he overtook John.

“You?” John asked surprised. Sherlock looked like he wouldn’t last a minute in a fight.

“ _Shut up_. I've boxed, we’ll get further with me fighting. I don’t know what possessed me to let you go instead.”

John followed Sherlock, staring still in surprise at his friend. He secretly hoped he wouldn't be remembered as the kid who got knocked out so quickly in his match. 

Five minutes later Sherlock was written down in the bracket for the night. There would be several matches tonight as several students and locals snuck down to watch idiots fight each other. 

They both make their way down to the basement where the Friday tourneys are held and snatch up a chair each around a spectator round table to wait until Sherlock is called up for his rounds. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” John hisses in Sherlock’s ear as he leans in to not be heard by those surrounding them.

Sherlock jerks away from him at the sudden action before rolling his eyes at him. “Of course I know what I’m doing. I’ve had practice. I don’t just fling myself at people like you do.” John should feel stung at the criticism, but he’d never really had a need to know to fight. 

The few people in attendance are smoking and drinking, John sits perched on the edge of his chair his back stiff as he glanced around. Sherlock is shoving something thin and soft but firm onto his hand and he reflexively opens his palm to accept whatever it is. It’s a cigarette. He glances up to question Sherlock.

“You need to blend in. You’re not drinking, I need you sober so you need to smoke.” He’s gaping at Sherlock. He doesn’t smoke; he’s never smoked in his life. “And see that you don’t cough up a lung, yeah.” 

Sherlock mimes lifting an invisible fag to his lips and John follows with putting the cigarette in his mouth, it doesn’t feel right. Sherlock is leaning close to him and flicking a heavy lighter open to light the cigarette, it catches quickly. 

“Inhale” Sherlock murmurs as the tip smokes a little and John inhales cautiously. It feels like his throat and lungs are searing. He’s coughing uncontrollably quite suddenly and he misses Sherlock hiss in disappointment. People are glancing over, blokes grinning and smirking at the new boy obviously smoking his first cigarette. 

“You would.” Sherlock mutters as he plucks the cigarette from John and wraps his own lips around and pulls deeply before exhaling the smoke slowly from his nostrils. He’s showing off and John is too busy breathing somewhat cleaner air without a cigarette in his mouth.

Sherlock hands the cigarette back and makes him drag another pull from the cigarette and this time John controls his small coughing fit. Sherlock still rolls his eyes, but at least he’s not making disapproving noises about it. 

Three PM finally arrives and the first match is under way. Sherlock is studying the two fighters in the middle of the room and has already pointed out the others fighting tonight to John, who has an unlit fag hanging from his lips as a blending prop. 

“I don’t think you should do this. It hurt, Sherlock. We should come up with another plan. Maybe catch them not in the middle of an illegal bare-knuckle club.” 

“They’re angry teenagers. Joseph is angry at his father for his mother leaving. Joseph Saltire is _here_ and we will catch him here.” Sherlock insisted.

John wanted to protest some more, but the bell was rung and the middle cleared. Sherlock stood suddenly, unbuttoning his cuffs before pulling his shirt out from inside his trousers.

“Now? You’re next, now?” John stood up in alarm. Sherlock hadn’t prepared, he hadn’t warmed up or stretched or given John any semblance that he knew how to hit someone. Sherlock was tall but he was lanky and looked like he could easily been thrown over.

“Obviously.” Sherlock muttered distractedly as he unbuttoned a few buttons from the top and pulled his shirt over his head. John was left with a fistful of shirt and feeling off balanced by Sherlock’s upper body that looked nothing like he had expected. He was thin, but not boney in the slightest as he had expected and he felt that detail was very interesting for some reason.

“Go on, belt, shoes, mobile and wallet too.” John resigned himself to watching his friend get slapped around. Sherlock dropped his mobile and wallet in John’s hand who quickly pocketed them, then he rid himself of shoes, socks, and his belt. Finally Sherlock walked off stretching his muscles and John set the shoes on the table, shoes stuffed with socks and tying them together by the shoe laces before flinging them over his neck. The belt followed and finally the shirt, all of it hanging off his neck like a common mule as he made his way closer to the middle to watch Sherlock.

When the fight started, John cringed at how awkward his friend looked. He couldn’t pick a stance and his opponent was a beastly boy with a sharp smirk. It looked like Sherlock was going to lose. 

Then the surprising happened. He’d never expected, he really should have though. Sherlock was fast, his opponent couldn’t reach him and at some unknown point in the match Sherlock decided he’d move on from being in the defensive position. Sherlock advanced quickly, fists up protecting his face and striking like a snake. Sherlock’s upper body twisted a little as his feet pivoted just slightly and the strength of the punch reverberated through the room – or at least that’s what it looked like. 

John cheered as suddenly as the others in the room. This was something very unexpected.

The opponent wasn’t down, but he was dizzy and very obviously off balance. Bent in the middle and leaning to the side until he straightened and staggered in the direction of where he’d been leaning towards. It didn’t take Sherlock long to finish him off after that. He was good, somehow patient in a fight when he was patient nowhere else. He waited until he could strike without being affected in turn. Twelve minutes in and Sherlock Holmes had won his first round. 

“That was fucking incredible!” John laughed as the rest of the audience roared along.

“Remember we’re on a case, John. We’re not the ones here for entertainment.” Sherlock chastised and John’s mouth quickly fell shut. 

“Right, well. Sit down.” John motioned to their old seats as the preparation for the next match started. Sherlock quickly pulled on his clothes and as John began handing his wallet and phone back, Sherlock plucked the phone out of his hand and ignored the wallet.

As the next match started, a twenty-something aged man walked up to their table. Sherlock looked relaxed, as if he knew everything that was going to happen and was okay with it. John was nervous; this was not what their last experience here was like. “Sherlock Holmes. I would like to extend an invitation up to the main room.”

“Certainly.” Sherlock agreed quickly and stood fluidly, as if he hadn’t been out of breath moments ago.

John stood up to follow him but the man shook his head. He opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock pushed him back in his seat. How was he supposed to sit there and not know what was going on? “Sherlock” John warned quietly, trying to rise again only to be pushed down in his seat once more.

“This won’t take long.” The man turned to assure John. It did not reassure him. John watched as Sherlock followed the man to the exit and took comfort that Sherlock had at least taken his mobile with him.

Of course his comfort did not last long. Joseph Saltire was in the next match – the previous one had ended quite quickly with one of the opponents calling quits – and Sherlock was not here, where he needed to be. 

>   
> **Me (Today 5:03 PM) to Sherlock:**  
> 
> 
> Where are you? I think I see something that might interest you.

The text message he had sent and received no reply for. He watched carefully, forgetting to cheer along with the crowds as he kept an eye on Saltire. He’d have to follow the other boy after his match.

And that was exactly what he did. Saltire left the middle of the room the victor of the last match. John stood slowly, staring, and planning what he would do. He could pretend to give the boy money for his spectacular win, maybe he’d be given a chance to stay around him until Sherlock got back.

Pulling out his wallet he only had three tenners and groaned, it would not be enough. As the idea struck, he pulled out Sherlock’s wallet. Past his fake identification cards, and they were only obviously fake to John because he knew Sherlock, John found a pinch full of half a tons and that was perfect. 

He hopped out from his table and followed. Right outside the door he called out. “Hey, Saltire, wait up!”

The boy was taller than him, even had broader shoulders. John wouldn’t last ten minutes in a fight with him if his match was anything to go by. “Yes” He snapped, turning to look at John.

John was used to worse reactions by people in his life, Saltire’s tone didn’t phase him. “I’d like to speak with you.”

“About?” Saltire finally fully turned to look at John. It always worked, feigning interest. 

“About money, I’d like to offer you some to help you along in your next match. Mind, it’s not much. But I’m hoping you could get me better seats.” John shrugs. 

“Walk with me.” Saltire nods before walking again. John hurries to catch up. “Exactly how much are we talking?”

“Six tons now” John replies easily. 

“And you are?” Saltire asks a little eagerly. 

“Watson. John Watson.” John replies, not coming up with a different alias quickly enough.

“Well John Watson, I think we have ourselves a deal here.”

What follows is actually quite boring. John and Joseph Saltire arrive upstairs to where Sherlock and the older man from earlier are talking. Sherlock looks pleased and the man has already forgotten John’s face.

Only John notices Sherlock pocket his mobile and he pointedly looks away from the fact and immerses himself in a discussion about – surprise, bare knuckle. John quickly makes the other boys and men like him, it only takes a bit of self deprecation and admitting to his loss days ago when everyone is up and giving him pointers.

It distracts them all from what is coming. There’s drinking involved and John accepts a few drinks and consumes them slowly. He lets everyone know that Rugby is more his thing than the coordination involved in one to one fighting. Joseph Saltire introduces him like an old friend, and all for six tons. It’s essentially a club of teenage boys.

The local police arrive less than an hour later with a warrant. John is surprised they came at all. The Fighting Cock Inn is shut down for the night, the big players of the club all in one place and easy to pick off. 

Sherlock and John are given a warning to not meddle in investigations until Lestrade arrives to give them even more warnings. It’s not until then that John learns the details of the case. Joseph Saltire was a runaway who went with his older half brother James Wilder who was the grown man who had asked for Sherlock. 

The two brothers joined the club to gain money and eventually blackmail their father to change his will – who apparently had written down that half of his money would go to charity. 

“All about money, how _dull_!” Sherlock snarled as he led the way out of the Inn. 

The sun was setting, John wasn’t intoxicated, they still had to go home soon and John didn’t want to. He was pleased when Sherlock found a charming building to sit outside of facing a park after he’d gone into a store to pick up a new packet of cigarettes.

* * *

Sherlock and John sat resting with their backs against the brick wall; legs sprawled out in front of them as they sit still. Sherlock is smoking a cigarette and John has his eyes shut in the comfort of Sherlock’s shoulder pressed against his and surrounded by the surprisingly relaxing smell of cigarette smoke. 

John sighs. It sounds like he’s letting go of all his troubles but the tension in his shoulder pressing into Sherlock tells him otherwise.

“She wasn’t worth it then.” Sherlock speaks around his cigarette, picking the easier subject to start with. He knows John has just rolled his head to stare at him. 

Sherlock glances over and sees John frowning at him. “Well, if she couldn’t wait a sodding day after you waited weeks for her to come back, she isn’t worth it.” Sherlock insists, feeling irritated that John couldn’t see this. 

“You can’t wait half an hour.” John counters. “And you aren’t even my boyfriend.” He picks up quickly on what Sherlock was talking about, he was getting better at it.

“I thought you said friends were more important.” Sherlock sneers down at John.

“They are. But I am missing out on things now, Sherlock. How am I supposed to find a new girlfriend for the rest of the summer if I’m following you everywhere?” John rolls his eyes and then his head to stare straight ahead again.

Sherlock licks his lips and stuffs out his cigarette, not bothering to finish it. He’s tired of John’s moping, it’s distracting. He leans forward, right hand bracing him on the concrete ground beside him before leaning over and pressing his lips against John’s. 

He’s not shy about it, but he’s sure not to put too much pressure so John wouldn’t feel forced. John doesn’t react and Sherlock softly rubs his warm and slightly moist lips against John’s drier ones, his lips sticking to John slightly and tickling as he pulls back slightly. John really shouldn’t lick his lips so much.

Finally John reacts, and it’s a hesitant pressure pushing back against his lips as if John is doing something he hadn’t anticipated. Their mouths aren’t opening to each other, it’s a comfortable and chaste press of lips and subtle shifting that feels delightful. He doesn’t think it lasts more than a few seconds.

John pulls back and barely avoids smacking the back of his head against the brick wall as he stares at Sherlock with wide eyes as blood rushes up staining his cheeks pink. His eyes are bright and very confused. “I’m not gay.” He says quickly. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes without being able to contain a smirk quirking at the left corner of his mouth. Sherlock is not an idiot. He’s leaning in again and pressing his lips against John’s once more and John with ample warning doesn’t react negatively, with only a moment of hesitance, John is pressing back without reserve. 

He feels John’s nose pressed against his cheek and feels the warm breath that travels across it. His left hand comes up to cup John’s jaw and instantly pushes their mouths into a new angle.

John’s head is now tilted back a little and seeking shameless contact with Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock feels his eyelids growing heavy and when they start fluttering decides keeping them closed is the best option as he watches John’s shut moments before he follows. 

It’s only kissing after all. They could enjoy this and have no complications. After all, John wants someone to kiss and Sherlock needs an assistant for his projects. 

But Sherlock knows that at this moment, this kiss isn’t exactly casual. They’re seeking comfort in each other and if John is desperately pulling himself closer to Sherlock, Sherlock won’t mention it. Because he was there when John’s mother admitted to not liking her own son after years of claiming he’d be better off with his grandparents and that’s why she wanted him there. He feels a thrill of terror at thinking about his own mother calling him a freak and pushing him away like everyone else has and he too clings harder to John, it’s not something he wants to imagine.

John tears himself away from Sherlock and he feels a little embarrassed at what sounds like laughter coming from John and before he gets a chance to be offended and retaliate cruelly, John’s leaning over and pressing his head against Sherlock’s chest and his body is shaking and suddenly Sherlock knows. 

It’s the spasm of his hands clutching against his clothes and the rapid breathing that completely gives John away. He’s going to hyperventilate if he doesn’t stop and Sherlock has nothing in hand, he’d only gone in for a pack of cigarettes and needed no bag. He pulls John up to look at him and suddenly John is laughing but there are tears slipping from his eyes.

Sherlock leans over John, blocking all view but his own face with closeness and he takes a deliberate breath before letting it out. He’s holding John’s head still now and repeats the process until John is joining in and finally copying his breathing pattern and he gradually sees the panic leave his friends’ eyes. 

He keeps this up for over a minute before John finally shuts his eyes, his brow furrowing and his mouth trembles once before being pinched thinner than usual but ultimately still. Sherlock doesn’t move until John’s finished regulating his breathing and he finally starts to move away to sit beside John again. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do from here. He’s never comforted before. So he won’t. 

But John is winding his fingers in the curls spilling over his collar and pulling him down for an open mouthed kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken longer to post than I expected. I'm writing so many things at once I don't know what I want to focus on, but here is chapter two. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> I have also made a [tumblr](http://221bmarauder.tumblr.com/) blog specifically for fanfic updates/information etc. Things will get busy for me soon and this will be the best way to find out how fic progress is going.


	3. Mummy Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating suddenly makes sense.

She watches her youngest and his friend John pile up their belongings into their proper storage. Mainly it’s John lifting and then entering while her son watches as if he is giving important instruction. She hopes Siger would find them already, he’s running late as it is.

A long weekend in the country would be good for them, especially John. She looked onto John as an adopted son; it hadn’t taken long for that to happen. John was such a nice boy with very good manners. She only wished he wouldn't let Sherlock drag him around all the time. She knew it was having an effect with his family; it was hard not to notice, and she felt guilty. 

But it was just as hard to say something about it because it was doing her Sherlock a world of good. 

“That’s a _Stradivarius_ , you idiot!” She hears Sherlock exclaim and she glances up in alarm.

John has his hands on his hips, facing her son fully. “Then maybe you should have carried it.” She hears him snap quickly in return. “It’s not like I dropped it.”

“That doesn’t matter. You put it way in the back!” Sherlock complains.

“Because it’s harder to see it that way, no one can tell it’s there!” John counters and Sherlock makes an aggravated noise. “Oh, and you’re giving us a concerto on the way there? Didn’t think so.” John sniffs.

Sherlock is glaring, and she wonders how that look hadn’t pushed John away as it had so many others before. So her Sherlock turns on his heels to sulk away when he suddenly stops.

She’s curious as to why. And suddenly she sees John’s fingertips making first contact with her son's wrist that had swung back as he turned to walk off. She instantly notices it’s effective. 

She watches them turn into each other, making equal movements and they’re suddenly leaning in close. Amazed, she begins to wonder at how close the two boys have gotten in the few months of their acquaintance. She hopes Sherlock and John remain friends for a long while. 

“There you are darling, I was beginning to worry that you had left me.” Her husband pecks her cheek as he reaches her.

She’s smiling brightly and grabbing his hand nearest to her. “Now that Sherlock and John are here to carry the heavy things, I have no real use for you.” She jokes lovingly.

Siger laughs, demanding the attention of those surrounding them including her boys. “Shall we?” He asks, looking over to where Sherlock and John are openly staring at them.

She smiles and begins to lead the way, entering the train and waiting for her boys to join them for breakfast.

The four of them last seated together until breakfast is finished. Sherlock is up quickly and dragging along John with him who makes the most adorable and completely unnecessary apologetic faces to her. They were only in First Class to have breakfast together so it was no loss to have them gallivanting off.

* * *

“Right, so these parties normally last how long?” John asks as he reclines against Sherlock’s dresser watching him fix his finer clothes.

“Until the parental figures decide it’s time to leave.” Sherlock sighs, turning to face John and struggling with a bow tie. 

“And you had to go with the bow tie because?” John walks to Sherlock and inspects the object in question after accepting Sherlock's reply. He’d never had a use for a real bow tie; he’d always used the clip on ones that the school provided for when they had concerts. 

Sherlock glares down at him. “Because my mother purchased it and insisted I wear it tonight.” He rolls his eyes heavenwards. “She has a fascination with seeing me in bow ties.”

“Doesn’t that mean you should be able to put it on without much fuss?” John fiddles with the two ends and finds himself grinning. His hands are promptly slapped away, the _‘you’re not helping’_ blatantly clear.

John laughs at Sherlock then. Typical of Sherlock to forget something he actually has a use for when it’s been branded as boring. “Well, you could always ask your mum.” John suggests with mock innocence. 

Sherlock grabs the base of his tie and yanks him forward sharply in retaliation. It only makes John laugh louder until a mouth is cleverly covering his own to shut him up. He feels himself melt into the kiss; it’s a nice feeling to have when they’re just starting out with this. He never expected he'd like to be kissed and held by another man quite this much, it felt more stable somehow. His hand reaches up to pull Sherlock closer only to stray across the undone bow tie. He’s suddenly snorting and laughing into Sherlock’s mouth and finally free when Sherlock pulls away. 

“You are absolutely disgusting.” Sherlock stares and John shrugs a little self consciously before he’s giggling again. The look Sherlock has on his face utterly priceless before it's controlled once more. They won’t get a chance to touch with Sherlock’s parents so close and they sort of eye each other for a moment before getting back to their own thing, Sherlock fiddling with his bow tie and John looking around the room.

 

“I’m acting like a bloody wallflower” John complains quietly into his flute of champagne as he watches others in his line of sight conversing. 

Normally he doesn’t have a problem going to parties with only knowing the one friend who invited him, but this time he feels so out of place he can’t fathom attempting to find something to talk about with anyone, especially because there aren't any people his age. He also feels like he’s clinging to Sherlock and finds he doesn’t quite like that either. 

“There you are, John.” A familiar man’s voice reaches him and he finds himself looking up at an irked but still amused Mr. Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes” John acknowledges him quickly. It was only right to do so when Sherlock’s father had been so generous. Despite the fact that he kept getting curious looks from him.

“I know we brought you along to enjoy yourself and I can’t help but notice you look uncomfortable. I could gather the family and we could leave soon if you’d like, we don’t have to stay the whole time.” He explains in a soothing voice.

John finds himself blushing. He was so obvious. He’s also shaking his head, “No Sir, I wouldn’t want to cause the night to end early. I was just taking a break to recharge for a bit.” He makes his excuses. 

Mr. Holmes watches him carefully. It’s obvious where Sherlock and Mycroft get it from. “Sherlock doesn’t seem to be having a good time; he’s had someone throw their drink on him.”

“On purpose?” John asks surprised, even though he could see someone doing it for something Sherlock said. 

“Yes.” Mr. Holmes’ eyebrows scrunch together. “Violet is trying to get him into the lavatory to wipe it off.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. What? 

“Exactly” Mr. Holmes sighs with a wry smile. He beckons John to follow him and is quickly led to where Sherlock is glowering down at his mother with his mouth shut tightly as she tries to wipe his clothes clean.

“Sweetheart” Mr. Holmes starts and both Sherlock and his mother look up, Sherlock glances over at John who is badly trying to hide a smirk and he earns a scowl for his efforts. “Let the boys take care of it, your friend is waiting for us.” He tenderly reaches for her and she goes to him willingly. 

John doesn’t see Sherlock’s reaction but once his parents tell him to go clean up he looks down at his ruined button up and dinner jacket with a detached and unaffected look. 

“What happened?” John asks as he moves a little closer to Sherlock.

* * *

“It’s hot and I’m bored.” John mutters out loud as he leans against a tree and watches Sherlock poke at some mud. It's the second day and he's not used to being stranded. He wonders how he got dragged on this country weekend trip with the Holmes' only to spend that time watching Sherlock play with even more dirt. Dirt he should have known plenty about by then.

“Stop” Sherlock replies, kicking off his shoes and toeing off his socks before flopping down to sit at the base of a tree beside the creek. John slowly pushed off his tree and makes his way to Sherlock, sitting beside him.

“But you know about this stuff already, you live here.” John continues while letting his head flop back against the trunk of the tree. So he’s feeling he could be using his time in a better manner than what he’s doing now, so what.

“There’s nothing else to do.” Sherlock answers with surprising patience as he pushes his shoulder into John slightly. John can only smile a little as he sighs.

“I can think of something.” He says casually. “I know you’ll like it.”

“I doubt it.” Sherlock scoffs, shutting his eyes and stretching upwards to feel the sun on his face and neck, the tree doing a poor job at shading - they're on the wrong side.

It’s around this time that John leans over and fiddles with Sherlock's zip on his jeans, he’s not wearing those expensive looking trousers today with all those buttons. He risks a glance up to look at Sherlock who is staring at him with narrowed eyes. John smirks, Sherlock is getting the point. 

Despite Sherlock’s narrowed eyes, evidence to his reaction of having John near his groin is unmistakable. John leans closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and resting his previously occupied hand on Sherlock’s waist. They're kissing and it lasts long enough before Sherlock catches his hand and pushes it back down to where John had it before. John pulls back before he’s opening the jeans and dipping his hand in and pulling Sherlock out of his pants, stroking as he exposes him. 

He can already hear the ragged breathing beside him and John wants to watch. He isn’t bored now; all his attention is on Sherlock who is very responsive. Sherlock’s eyes are still open, but barely as he switches from watching John’s hand to John’s face. It’s not long before Sherlock’s hands are clenching slightly, his legs spreading, and he’s looking at John as if he’s demanding for more. 

John doesn’t know what makes him do it. Probably just knows what he would have liked if he was in this same situation, that’s probably the reason. He strokes his fist down to the base to rest against the dark curls before bending over to touch the tip of his tongue against the head which is leaking precum. 

He feels Sherlock jolt at his touch and John flinches back a little as a result, when it registers that he’s not exactly sure what he just tasted. So he leans back down, shifting to his knees and stretching out to a better angle for access and he’s suddenly using more than just the tip of his tongue. He licks a broad strip from where his fist ends around Sherlock to the meatus before opening his mouth and sliding down a little past the corona. 

Sherlock tightens even more against his shoulder and John swirls his tongue over the head experimentally before sucking a little when he hears a strangled sound from Sherlock and suddenly something warm is filling his mouth and something else is gripping the base of his skull very tightly and pushing him down, giving him a moment of panic to fear if he was about to choke or gag to death. 

He inhales sharply through his nose before sputtering air out through his mouth, ejaculate spraying across Sherlock and dripping down his lips. He braces himself against the soft ground and pushes away from Sherlock. He’s gasping for air just as hard as Sherlock is, Sherlock who is looking at him with dark wide eyes. 

_“John”_ Comes out of Sherlock’s mouth in a shocked gasp. John doesn’t know how to react, he'd just given his boyfriend his first blowjob. He only shakes his head, hair flopping annoyingly into his eyes as he licks his lips. His tongue catches on a some spunk off his bottom lip and he reflexively swallows to get rid of the strange texture. 

“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock is apologizing and that shocks John more than being pushed down on his friends’ pecker during orgasm. What does that say about him?

John opens his mouth to speak but when his skin stretches in the movement he is instantly aware of something streaked against his chin and he's quickly wiping at it. “Well. That was not what I expected.” John speaks with an attempt at an unaffected tone that is ruined by the new rasp of his voice.

It’s quiet between them and just a little awkward if they’re to be honest as Sherlock fixes himself into his jeans. “With you, holding me down.” John clarifies, more blood rushing to make an appearance on his cheeks as he blushes harder. 

Sherlock stares before speaking. “That was unexpected, I admit. I did not mean to.” 

John chuckles before falling silent. “So – uh – did you like it?” John asks a moment later, easily diffusing the awkward moment that surely would have lasted far longer if he hadn’t spoken. 

Sherlock doesn’t laugh or smile. He simply nods and replies with a ‘yes’, making John nod approvingly before pushing himself closer again to kiss Sherlock on the lips. Then says “Knew you would” before sitting back down beside him with a satisfied look on his face.

He knows Sherlock is either scowling or grinning right now and as he turns to look he sees a wide and lopsided grin, his mouth fighting to maintain the usual control but failing miserably. John can only grin back before he begins to giggle and leans over to hide his face on Sherlock’s collar. If he wanted personal proof that blokes were not a one off then this was it, because Sherlock looked fit as flushed as he was now.

“Never thought you’d go for sticking it in your mouth” Sherlock admits.

John pulls away from Sherlock, suddenly laughing. Sherlock sits relaxed before pushing his back into the tree and moving to kneel over him. John can only tilt his head back to look up at Sherlock, he knows what follows. He feels hot and excited and mostly tight all over especially inside his own jeans which became uncomfortable since the breathy noises Sherlock made with John’s hand in his pants. 

He watches almost lazily as Sherlock works him out of his own pants and slides his eyes shut in contentment as Sherlock works his hand over him. His own coming up to wrap around Sherlock’s fist to hold just a tad tighter and the breath stutters in his chest at the near perfect pressure. 

He forces his eyes open to look at Sherlock and is greeted with all the attention Sherlock could muster firmly and solely on him. He hums out Sherlock’s name, his hand stretched out and petting Sherlock’s arm and then shoulder and suddenly there’s a warm wet soft touch against him making his hips stutter too. Hair curls softly around his fingers as he finds himself petting Sherlock’s hair before his hips are moving involuntarily and hands are suddenly pushing them down to keep him still.

John is clutching at Sherlock as his body tightens, warning sounds escaping from his mouth instead of the needy sounds from before. His shoulders and head are firmly pressed against the tree as the rest of his body arches and then Sherlock is moving away, keeping his fist around him and sliding quickly and finally he’s coming. He’s left gasping, peeling his eyes open only to see Sherlock looking at him with a curious look as he wipes the hand that caught his cum on the bark of the tree holding John up. John is stretching a hand, wrapping it around the back of Sherlock’s neck and tugging.

It feels wrong to have had so much and suddenly be left with nothing just as quickly, he wants Sherlock against him. Always touching him somewhere, proof that he's there. He lets go and lets his head flop as he catches his breath and Sherlock tucks him back in and zipping him up. 

“All right.” Sherlock suddenly speaks into the natural quiet of their little space.

John stills, looking questioningly up at Sherlock. 

Sherlock smirks, moving to stretch out on the floor as he pillows his head on John's thighs. They keep each other company in silence.

* * *

She smiles at John when he comes down to join her for breakfast. It's the second breakfast John would be having here this weekend. He is the first of her boys willing to come down for food alone besides Mycroft and she knows it’s only a matter of time before her husband comes down as well and she has to bully Sherlock to eat.

“How have you been, John?” She asks genuinely interesting in how John had been doing during the long visit to the country.

John smiles, still shyly and quite charmingly at her before answering in his steady voice. “Great. It’s all been good, I’ve really been enjoying myself.” He swallows a little heavily before grinning a bit.

She twirls her fork slightly, “I’m pleased to hear it. I knew the country was just what you needed. You and Sherlock have been running around London a lot more recently, hardly ever at the house anymore. Always traveling somewhere else, the country has really been good to you.” She compliments.

The moments she has with John are enjoyable. Normally her family is argumentative and each wants the last word that there is usually some argument that gets blown out of proportions, especially when it involves her sons. Instead John is clever and says the most interesting things quite spontaneously as well as in the perfect moment. Nothing is forced, John is genuine and clearly comfortable around the family.

Then Sherlock walks in and she watches them carefully. Her son quickly scans for John and finds him instantly. John seems to gain the ability to pay even more attention than before. There’s a look to their faces that gives her a feeling she should know that something happened. Something changed. But she can’t quite figure out what it is. They don't look perturbed so it can't be bad.

“Morning Mummy” Sherlock grumbles before sliding into a seat next to John and across the table from her. She catches the back of his hand accidentally tracing down John’s arm from Shoulder to elbow as he sits to breakfast without another care. They're obviously comfortable with each other and she feels something like hope. Sherlock isn't pushing John away and John doesn't seem bothered by Sherlock.

“Have breakfast darling. You don’t want John to eat by himself.” She smiles as he looks at her before pointedly looking down at her own plate of food.

“Oh, I’ll be finished soon. If your father doesn’t come down by the time I’ve finished make sure he eats something. I want to enjoy both your company while I can.” Her smile brightens at the two of them. 

She watches carefully over Sherlock, making sure he eats enough. He stares at his food for a few seconds as if contemplating it before pulling out his fork and stabbing a bit of salted and peppered egg, bursting it and causing yolk to slowly ooze across his plate.

Giving him a look as he glances up, he sighs and pulls a slice of toast out of the toast rack to dip into his yolk. She smiles, he would eat his breakfast and she could focus on her own. As she glances over at John again she notices that he has no trouble eating his breakfast. 

Sitting for a moment after she’s finished her meal, she watches her boys. It’s obvious to her now that something changed between Sherlock and John. She wonders what Sherlock said, because John suddenly seems almost shy and wont look her in the eyes. She'd have a talk with Sherlock later about it. 

And she can tell Sherlock notices. Because at first he watched John with his usual pensive look and now he’s glancing at him as if smug about something. She wants to kick him under the table, can’t he see that it’s affecting John who has steadily been getting redder. Sherlock could really be a little mean at times.

Sighing, she sets her empty tea cup down and stands to leave. It wouldn't do to have John uncomfortable as he tried to eat. “Have a good day boys, and be careful.” She parts with, a little displeased she'd see very little of them on their last full day here.

* * *

“She knows.” John whispered harshly at him as they make an escape out to the back heading towards the street by taking the trail through the trees instead of the driveway.

“She does not.” Sherlock assures John. He doesn’t understand why John is bothered about his parents finding out. It’s a natural human action, sex is a basic necessity, even when it happens between two males and they’re not having sex to make more humans. 

“She does!” John exclaimed suddenly. “Did you see the way she was looking at us?” John demanded.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. As if he could miss something so blatantly obvious. “If you noticed it, John, I’m certain I noticed it as well.” 

John ignores the barb, it's like the comments slide off of him. “They’re your parents. Shouldn’t you care more about them finding out?” John questions curiously.

“That I have a boyfriend? - yes, I know that's what you think of me as. I agree." He quickly jumps on to more important matters, apparently. "And that we’re having sex? Why should I be, statistically we’re well within the age of sexual activity. There’s no reason my parents should be bothered about me having sex – especially with you. They like you for some reason. And it’s none of their business.” 

John fidgets in front of him and he has the urge to tell him to stop. To stop fretting, it’s unbecoming and completely unnecessary. And he knows what is causing this. John likes his parents, actually looks up to them, and alarmingly wants them to approve of him as a person. 

He doesn’t exactly approve of this mentality John is harboring. John doesn’t need the approval of others, Sherlock doesn’t. So why is he constantly thinking about what his parents and their friends think? It shouldn’t matter. John was John, he couldn’t change who he was no matter how much he wished. It wouldn’t last.

And he knows that John’s parents are to blame. How adults and humans in general could cock-up something that should be simple and basic was astounding. John’s grandparents fit into it as well, they noticed the abuse of their grandson and took him in spinning tales and lies that would ultimately hinder John as it did now. 

Something had to happen that would open John’s eyes to the fact that he didn’t need to go sniffing after unworthy people’s approval. In the end you had to be sure about yourself and if anyone should be, it was John. 

“Look, let’s just be careful. Just in case.” John determines looking up at him, unmovable in his decision. “Besides, you don’t seem keen on giving your mum an in to have an opinion on it. She’d be less interfering if she didn’t know there was something to interfere about.”

A slow smirk won for property of his lips. He reaches around with his right hand to fist into John’s hair at the back of his head and brings their foreheads together. Sometimes John could point out the most obvious things that Sherlock overlooked, sometimes it was brilliant. John grinned helplessly, as if he couldn’t resist with Sherlock right there.

Pulling back and letting go, Sherlock led the way off the property. If they wanted to reach the small village shops before his parents came up with a plan to spend time, they’d have to set off now. Otherwise it’d be too hot if they waited and had a higher chance of being rained on as well.

The streets were empty and the grass uncut on the sides of the road, and John strolled leisurely beside him. He was not likely to run into any of his old school mates from primary, so he could keep John to himself for the day, even if the day was wasted because there was absolutely nothing of importance to do. 

And the lack of something important to do was grating on him. 

 

The newspaper had a small section for the death of 16 year old Carl Powers at the London pool he worked for as a Life Guard. He had been found drowned in the pool he was supposed to close up the night before after closing time. He had died alone. His parents hadn’t been concerned that he hadn’t arrived home after work.

Sherlock wondered about Powers’ parents. How could they not be concerned about his whereabouts? Even his own parents, who are used to Sherlock disappearing and reappearing at all times, always text him to keep in contact to know he is safe, to know where he is. 

And that isn’t the only thing that is bothering him about this death. No, it’s not that someone close to his age drowned and died. Deaths happen all the time, it’s just bound to happen. What bothers him is that this was someone who presumably knew how to swim ended up drowning. Something was off.

And no one was questioning it.

They were calling it a freak accident. 

He needed to get more information.

  
 **Me (Today 6:42 PM) To Lestrade:**

Tell me more about Carl Powers. SH

>   
> **Lestrade (Today 6:47 PM):**
> 
> No. 

  
**Me (Today 6:47 PM) To Lestrade:**

It was murder. SH

  
 **Me (Today 6:53 PM) To Lestrade:**

Tell me more. SH

  
No reply. Sherlock let out an aggravated groan and threw his mobile in the direction of his bed before throwing himself down at his desk, signing into his laptop. He’d have to see if there was more online than the short piece they had in the village newspaper.

It took less than a minute to pull up the coverage. While they had no pictures of the body, they did have a picture of the pool. There were also unhelpful testimonials from people and a list of things the boy had with him in his last moments. The contents of his locker and pack exposed to the world. 

Reading through the list caused something to bother him. The Shoes. Where were his shoes?

He pushed away from his desk and went back to his mobile. No messages. Lestrade would not reply. He hated Sherlock getting in the middle of his work. If he wanted to get in on cases he had to force his way in at the last minute when he couldn’t be stopped.

But from what statements Scotland Yard had made, it looked like everyone was taking this in as an accident. Powers was only another addition to the statistics of drowned people during the summer months. Only that was wrong.

Staring at his phone for a moment he quickly walked over to his door and opened it. There was no one outside his door. His parents were at a dinner with more friends and John was in his room playing some mind numbing game.

Quickly shutting the door and turning the lock he walked back into his room and dialed 101.

 _“Police non-emergencies, how can I help you?”_ The faint tone reached him.

“You’ve got it wrong.” Sherlock replied quickly. 

_“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I do not understand. Can you confirm your name for me please.”_

“Sherlock Holmes. And Carl Powers, it was murder.” 

_“There was a murder?”_ The tone changed to one of more attention and alarm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. Scotland Yard commented on it this morning. Carl Powers, 16, London, Drowned – it was murder. Not an accident.” 

_“Where do you have this information from?”_ The person on the other side questioned, a tone of urgency fitting into the voice.

“From the statement online.” Sherlock answered quickly, finally having someone to listen. “He’s missing his shoes. The shoes are missing from the inventory taken.”

There was a long pause on the other side of the phone. _“His shoes are missing?”_

“Yes” Sherlock replied, losing patience. How hard was it to understand.

He heard a sigh. _“Look, Mister Holmes, how old are you?”_

“Seventeen, I don’t think that matters to th-“ 

_“Right. You shouldn’t be using this number to make prank calls. This is not what the service is for. This is a warning, do not call again.”_ The voice takes on annoyed tone now.

Sherlock glares out of his window. “This is not a game. This is serious. Carl Powers was murdered. It was murder.” He insisted.

 _“Right. Well, your statement will be read by the police. Thank you for calling. Someone will be in touch if they have further questions.”_ The call was quickly cut off. 

He held his mobile in a tight fist, aggravated. How could no one see what it was?

John. John would believe him.

Quickly banishing his mobile to his pocket he went to his door and out of his room. He stood breathing outside his room for a few seconds, trying to get his irritation in check. It wouldn't do to go in angry and take it out on John.

He walked much more calmly to John’s room only a few ways down. He knocked once before trying the handle which twisted and allowed him access to the room. 

John had paused his game and was turning to look at his door. A smile crossing across his face as Sherlock stepped in. 

“Finally admitting to wanting to play a round with me?” John teased as he waved his controller around. Sherlock rolled his eyes before walking closer to John to rest against the post of his bed. 

“No. I don’t want to play your mindless games.” Sherlock retorted.

“Okay. Well, what is it. You don’t look too pleased?” John pointed out the obvious once more, only this time it was useless and rankled. 

“I called in about Carl Powers.” Sherlock admitted. The look of comprehension now took over John’s face. Then a look of disapproval replaced the comprehension. Sherlock pushed off the post and began pacing as his mind began to race.

* * *

“He drowned” John emphasized as he rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s back who had started pacing.

“He was a lifeguard!” Sherlock thunders as he turns to glare at John. He was close to the end of his rope, John could tell, it had been days and Sherlock’s mood got worse as the days continued.

John takes in a steadying breath. There’s no use in getting into a fight with Sherlock, he’d never win and it would ruin the few days that actually felt like a vacation. Carl Powers was an atypical case, but it did happen.

“Sherlock –“John starts.

“– And the list of things found in his locker don’t add up!” Sherlock seethes.

“Sherlock” John tries again. And quite suddenly that calculating stare is on him and it’s not very kind.

“You don’t get it, John. You don’t see. Your mind is so placid it’s no wonder you and everyone else don’t get it.” He speaks as if everyone has disappointed him. “I don’t know why I bother. You never observe.”

“And what’s there to observe?” John asks harshly as he sets his game controller down heavily onto the bed to better focus on Sherlock.

Sherlock sighs, making an aborted move to leave the room before quickly turning on his heels and marching back to John who is now sitting on the end of the bed, he snatches something up from the floor.

“Why do you use these?” Sherlock brandishes his trainers at him.

“To walk” John deadpans, completely unimpressed. He hears a slight grunt from Sherlock before he speaks.

“Exactly” Sherlock breathes, sounding excited. 

John continues to stare blankly. He doesn’t see what it has to do with anything. And clearly Sherlock has just deduced that John continues to be ignorant because he lets out a frustrated sound before flinging the shoe back down. 

“Would you like me to spell it out? I think I should.” Sherlock starts nastily. “Where are his shoes? The list of things Powers had was extensive and one thing was missing, shoes. Where were they? He had them, did they walk off?” Sherlock mocked by flattening his hands and miming them in a forward walking motion in John’s face. 

“His shoes? You think it was murder because he didn’t have shoes?” John asked to clarify. 

“Because his shoes are missing” Sherlock corrected waspishly. 

“He had pool sandals, and water shoes.” John replied calmly and in a matter of fact tone. There is a look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, as if he hadn’t expected John to look online when Sherlock had expressed interest in the matter earlier that day and then spent the rest of it silent and thinking.

“So?” Sherlock asked, losing the little patience he was maintaining by the second. 

“So he wore his sandals to the pool. People do that you know, not wear trainers and wear sandals instead.” John began to explain to help Sherlock understand that everything in the Powers case was normal – except for the fact that a drowned teenaged lifeguard was found in a pool. 

“You think it was an accident?” Sherlock challenged, standing still and stretched to his full height. 

John nodded, “Yeah” he replied softly. “I think it was an accident.” 

“You’re stupid.” Sherlock stated bluntly. 

“Maybe. And you’re seeing things as worse than they are. It’s a tragedy, Sherlock. You shouldn’t go trying to twist it into a murder. Murder is not good.” John replied carefully to Sherlock’s words.

“You think I’m twisting this into something else?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“I think you’re bored.” John admitted, pushing to stand up from the bed and walk closer to Sherlock. As he approached, Sherlock retreated before turning on his heels and briskly leaving the room. He didn’t bother shutting the door behind him. 

John sighed, still standing and staring after Sherlock. His right foot idly playing with his trainers that had once again been tossed carelessly at the foot of his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be posted yesterday but spent the whole day at the Museum of Natural Science. Also this chapter bothers me, I don't think I like the execution much. I'll likely come back at some point to fix it but I have decided to finish this fic by the end of August and want to get to the rest of it. You can follow progress and updates through [here](http://221bmarauder.tumblr.com/).


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